


Welcomes: Warm and Otherwise

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt is in hot pursuit of those who sacked the witcher stronghold, Kaer Morhen, and stole valuable alchemic secrets.<br/>His investigations lead him to one of Temeria's biggest cities, Visima. </p><p>Unfortunately, things do not get off to a good start...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains some spoilers for the first Witcher game, though I have twisted the plot for my own evil purposes ^_^  
> I really enjoyed this game once it got going, and thought Geralt's character was loads of fun. Unfortunately for my fangirl purposes, I didn't spot anyone who I wanted to pair him up with. So I introduced a character of my own.
> 
> The Avrian is MINE :P The world of The Witcher and all the other fabulous characters are sadly not mine.

So much for Visiman hospitality, Geralt thought sourly to himself. He remained where he was for a few moments, on the floor of the cell. Reaching a gloved hand up he pushed long silver strands aside and prodded carefully at his skull, wincing slightly as his fingers found the spot where they’d clubbed him. At least the morons didn't use anything jagged, he mused as he brought his hand down, eyeing his palm for signs of blood.

Checking through the various pockets of his leather jacket proved fruitless. His belongings had been confiscated, down to the last sprig of potion making extract. No doubt these slimy excuses for Guardsmen had helped themselves to his coin purse and anything else they’d deemed valuable. That left Geralt his shirt, trews and boots.

The Witcher slowly got to his feet, yellow cat’s eyes taking in his surroundings. They’d put him in a small holding cell adjoining the jails’ general population enclosure. Two guards occupied the open space in the centre of the room, one lounging on a makeshift pallet and the other one shoveling in food as he sat with his back toward the flickering orange light of a fireplace. The fighter was just about to call out to the guards, when he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock and the clanking and whining as a cell door was opened. 

“Professor, move it! You’re free.” A voice drawled from down the hall.

Geralt moved to the front of his cell to afford himself a better view. Long fingers clenched around the bars tightly as a thin, bespectacled man emerged. His black coat swished as he strode through the room, a guard on either side. 

Dark beady eyes locked on smoldering yellow ones as the scientist approached and paused in front of Geralt’s cell, stepping in close.

“How ironic, our paths cross again!” he sneered, his nasal voice grating on Geralt’s nerves. “So near and yet so far. Fear not, Witcher, we’ll meet again, I assure you.” The Professor smirked at him.

“You’re making a mistake, this man’s a murderer.” Geralt warned the guards. They ignored him. 

The scientist huffed a laugh. “You fail to grasp the basic rules governing this world. You’re a genetically modified murderer with no place in modern society. But we’ll tend to that problem next time. Farewell.” And with that, the Professor spun on his heel and continued his way over to the stairs. 

“I can’t wait.”Geralt watched him leave, eyes narrowed. His fingers itched for his sword. Though, he supposed crushing the man’s windpipe would be just as satisfying...

At the foot of the stairs, the Professor paused for a moment, speaking lowly to the guards, but even Geralt’s enhanced senses weren't that good. After a moment, he reached into a pocket and produced a small pouch which he handed to the man nearest him. And then he continued up the stairs alone.

He watched curiously as the guards moved over to a set of cogs with a lever protruding from them. One guard began to manipulate the lever and Geralt felt an answering vibration emanating from the bars of his cell. Cautiously, he stepped away, one eye on the bars, the other on the floor. He was not going to fall for the ‘trapdoor in the floor’ trick.  
Instead, one of the walls in his cell began to rise, retracting into the ceiling. Glancing up, the fighter could see a gash in the ceiling – wide enough for the bars to slide into. A metallic clicking sound started, sounding rhythmically as the cogs found their grooves and turned. Finally, the wall disappeared completely into the ceiling, leaving Geralt an unobstructed path into the large cell block holding Visima’s other prisoners.

“Abso-fucking-lutely beautiful.” he muttered, as a burly man came swaggering towards him, cracking his knuckles and grinning manically. 

***

The scuff of boots on flagstones drew Geralt’s gaze to the tower’s spiraled stairs though he did not rise from his spot propped against the corner of the cell. He’d contemplated rushing the guards and simply taking his leave, but given that he had no idea how long his investigation in Visima would take, he discarded the idea. It wasn't like he’d be able to blend in if the city guard put out orders for his re-capture. No, he needed the guard to rescind their orders and release him.

The guardsmen finally came into view at the bottom of the steps and yellow eyes widened subtly. Three guards propelled an unresisting young man towards the cells. Light brown hair clung wetly to his naked back and shoulders. His trews and boots were covered with dirt, streaking where the rain had touched him. Protruding from the man’s back were grey bird-like wings, tightly folded against his body. An Avrian.

A low whistle to Geralt’s left suggested that all eyes were on the newcomer. The cell’s occupants were unusually silent as one guard unlocked the door.

“Say hello to yer new mate, boys!” another said as he shoved the young man through the space. It caused him to stumble, and wings extended slightly in reflex as he caught himself, then straightened slowly.

The other three prisoners had formed a half-circle a few paces back from the door’s mouth, waiting.

“No killing him, Baldor, or you’ll wish you’d never been born!” hollered another guard over his shoulder as they turned and left the dungeons. The thug made a rude gesture at the guard’s backs.

Geralt slowly got to his feet as the mob inched closer to the Avrian.

“You heard the guard, Slippery.” Baldor smirked at a weedy-looking ruffian on his right. “Let’s introduce ourselves to our new guest.” 

Slippery chortled loudly, revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth.

“Don’t get many of your kind in Temeria.” Baldor commented mildly. “In fact, you’re the first birdman I’ve clapped my eyes on. What d’you know, ay? The bard-songs were bloody right. You’re as pretty as a lass.”

The others found this funny as they all chuckled along with Baldor.

Geralt’s eyes slid to the Avrian. By the set of his shoulders, there was no doubt the boy understood the Temerian language. He’d retreated a pace or two, his gaze fixed intently on the group, face grim. He hadn't yet spied Geralt in the cell’s corner.

“Do you sing, little bird?” Baldor leered at the newcomer.

The boy did not respond.

“Lost your tongue? Don’t worry, we’ll find it.” Baldor continued, stepping in closer.

Geralt moved away from the wall, and violet eyes darted to him warily. The Avrian paled further, as he noted Geralt’s eyes. He’d clearly also heard about Witchers.

“I’m not a fan of bullies.” Geralt stated, folding his arms and fixing a stare on Baldor. The other three prisoners fell silent, sensing an unknown threat. But Baldor spat on the ground in disgust. 

“Who died and made you Maker?” he growled. “It’s a free country and right now I’d like to hear some singing!” 

Geralt moved. And was suddenly standing partially in front of the young man, facing off against Baldor. The other three backed away, startled and the Avrian flinched.

“Perhaps I didn't hit you hard enough last time.” Geralt’s voice was steely. “But we can remedy that.” He moved in until he was inches from Baldor’s face. 

A commotion outside the cell was the only thing that stopped Geralt from taking a swing at the man. He turned his head.

A tall, solidly built veteran guard stood close to the bars. Geralt recognised the uniform. This was the Captain of the City Guard. The man who’d likely ordered his arrest. The Captain held one hand up, waving an official-looking document in their direction. “All right you maggots. “ He drawled. “The king in his mercy will pardon whoever subdues the cockatrice in the sewers.” 

“I’m yer man, Vincent.” Baldor declared immediately, stepping past Geralt.

“Pardon? What about half the kingdom, the Princess’s hand in marriage?” Geralt added dryly, losing patience with the whole situation.

“Clever.” Vincent looked anything but amused. “Watch what you say, Witcher. Practical jokes could get you in trouble.”

Geralt was unimpressed by the threat. But if it would get him out of this jail with an official pardon, it would save him a whole lot of hassle. “I’ll slay your monster.” He offered.

“I want to come with you.” A cultured voice spoke from Geralt’s side. Geralt looked down at the Avrian for a moment, considering. The boy’s gaze did not waver from his, expression unreadable.

“I’m not sending a hunting party to slay the cockatrice. I said a volunteer. Singular.” Vincent griped. “Anyway you’re both too late. We have our volunteer.” He jerked his head towards Baldor.

“That tub of lard? You’re kidding. I’m the better candidate.” Geralt argued.

“You want freedom? Fight for it. Whoever wins faces the cockatrice.” The captain folded his arms, looking expectantly from Geralt to Baldor.

“If I win, he comes with me.”Geralt gestured at the boy and stared at Vincent challengingly. The non-human wasn't going to last five minutes after he left. And creeps like Baldor made him sick. This is just like the village all over again. He thought, ironically. 

“I don’t let prisoners dictate their terms.” 

“Fine. When I get back I’ll pay his bail.” 

Vincent paused tellingly. He’d likely counted the contents of Geralt’s leather pouch. 

“You’re going to have another non-human incident on your hands if he stays.” Geralt pointed out. He waited.

“You have to defeat Baldor first.” Vincent insisted, not moving a muscle.

Geralt snorted. “Piece of cake. Are we agreed, then?”

“Fine.” Vincent said finally, likely drawing the same conclusion.

Geralt turned to face his opponent. What a waste of time, he thought. 

“I’ll defeat you then trash that lizard and go free.” Baldor challenged.

“Let’s do it.” Geralt adopted a fighting stance easily.

“...”

“Bastard! You couldn’t have defeated me without your spells.” Baldor howled up at him, enraged. The effect was somewhat lessened since Geralt’s booted foot was planted squarely on the man’s prone chest. Geralt leaned in.

“I saved your life. The cockatrice is no joke.” He said seriously before releasing the other man and stepping back.

“Next time you’ll get beaten.” Baldor promised darkly, as he got to his feet. But he did not make any further moves to attack the Witcher.

A slow clap echoed throughout the dungeon. “Congratulations. You won the right to slay the beast.” Vincent said, every line of his body mocking Geralt.

“I’m almost proud.” Geralt returned, not skipping a beat.

“Want to slay the beast or would you rather just stand there?” Vincent wondered.

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the Avrian’s wrist and pulled the boy after him as Vincent unlocked the cell, allowing them both past before re-locking the door.

“I need a weapon.” Geralt stated.

“That’s funny. We recently confiscated a Witcher’s sword.” Vincent faced him, undaunted by his proximity. Geralt’s eyes narrowed at the man.

“Where –“ he began.

“Not your business.” The Captain cut him off brusquely. “Jethro, bring the silver sword. The rest of your gear’s in deposit for afterwards.”

“Fine.”

Geralt stood by as another member of the guard disappeared down the corridor, before reappearing with a serviceable-looking silver sword. He handed it to Geralt hesitantly, as if afraid Geralt would use it on him. The Avrian was a silence presence at his side.

Over in a corner of the room, two guards grunted as they slid across a heavy grate in the floor. This would be their entrance into the sewers.

Geralt gestured at the boy to go ahead of him. After a slight hesitation, the boy took the lead. He peered into the hole unhappily. Geralt stepped over to a wall sconce and removed a wooden torch. Vincent scowled at him, but made no move to retrieve the torch.

With his other hand, he stuck the sword through his belt temporarily then gripped the Avrian’s arm, getting ready to lower him into the sewers.

“One more thing. I’ll pay extra for the cockatrice’s head. Provided it’s undamaged.” Vincent spoke up suddenly.

Geralt turned to face him. “I’ll see what I can do.” He acknowledged. “Watch my belongings. I’ll be back and I’ll want everything returned.” 

“I hope the cockatrice eats you both and saves me the paperwork.” Was Vincent’s parting comment as Geralt jumped into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Lyre briefly entertained the idea of running. This indecision was his undoing. A bright arc of flame sailed through the air and a dull thud echoed as boots connected with the narrow walkways that bordered the sewer tunnels. The glow from the torch highlighted the Witcher’s alien features and the Avrian was reminded of stories about vampires and monsters of which he used to be so fond.

“Here.” The torch was suddenly thrust at him. “The name’s Geralt.”

“Lyre.” He responded, accepting the light source.

“I don’t suppose you have any combat training?”

“Actually, I’m a healer.” 

“Then stay back and keep an eye out behind you.”

The murky waters near their feet rippled ominously and Lyre retreated hastily, eyeing the narrow channel. A figure rose from the depths. It lurched at them, dripping slime and mud from its green tinged body. 

Geralt moved fluidly then, slashing with the borrowed sword and the creature was cut down, sinking silently back into the waters. Lyre stared at the spot half expecting the monster to rise again.

“What was that?” he asked, after a moment.

“A Drowner.” The Witcher was proceeding down the tunnel, sword still drawn. Lyre quickly picked up the pace, keeping an eye over his shoulder, wary now of meeting with more sewer monsters. 

“So what did a healer possibly do to get locked up in jail? Besides being non-human?” Geralt wondered.

Lyre hesitated, wondering how much to tell the man. “I healed the headman of the village outside Visima’s gates.” 

This earned him a measuring stare from the cat-like eyes. “The headman? He was in a bad way…when I left.” Geralt stated, sounding faintly accusing. 

“You were there? The villagers said a witch escaped and murdered half the men. Is it true?” Lyre blurted out. He gasped as the fighter spun around and pinned him against the wall effortlessly with his free arm.

“You’d better watch what you say, Avrian.” The Witcher hissed lowly, his face inches from Lyre’s. “I don’t need to keep you around.”

Lyre didn’t dare breathe, lest it enrage the man further. They stood still for a few heartbeats – or was it lifetimes? 

“She wasn’t a witch.” Geralt said suddenly, loosening his grip. “She was a healer. Like you. And they persecuted her for it.”

Realisation coursed through him. “It was you.” 

The Witcher regarded him silently for a moment and the birdman got the feeling his life hung in the balance. Lyre closed his eyes briefly, feeling strangely hollow. Part of his brain screamed at him to fight, to survive. But to what end? He could never return home.

“Bloody healers.” Geralt swore at him, releasing him completely and stepping away. 

Lyre trailed the man in silence. 

They continued to wind their way through the sewers, Geralt dispatching drowners as quickly as they appeared. Lyre could no longer tell one direction from another, and he hoped the Witcher had an idea of where they were going. 

A screech echoed throughout the tunnels, bouncing off walls until Lyre felt surrounded by the sound.

“How do you do this for a living?” Lyre murmured, paling slightly.

Geralt snorted. “I wonder that myself sometimes.”

And he moved forward.

The mutant dragon had occupied much of the large cavern, leaving bones and discarded carcasses lying haphazardly piled. The water was deeper than it had been throughout the rest of the sewer. 

“Stay back. Use the torch if it starts heading for you.” Geralt instructed him brusquely.

Lyre moved away from the cavern’s entrance and pressed his back into the wall, gripping the torch tightly.

Geralt charged. Lyre watched as Geralt ducked and slashed at the animal, then reversed the blade and swung again as came at him. The creature shrieked angrily as the Witcher’s sword struck it in the side. 

The fighter launched himself into the air to avoid its claws, and prepared to stab it through the neck. The cockatrice turned its head at the last minute, the sword passing through its gaping mouth and into its brain. The creature bit down instinctively and the sharply hooked beak sunk deeply into Geralt’s sword arm. Lyre heard him grunt in pain, as he wrenched the sword sideways to hasten the monster’s death.

Finally it was still. 

Lyre saw his chance. With the Witcher’s arm pinned, he would have a head start. If he could keep aloft, he may be able to keep out of reach of the drowners lurking in the tunnels. His eyes followed Geralt’s movements as the man braced a foot against the cockatrice’s face, trying to manoeuvre his arm free.

“Stop.”

Lyre held the torch near the monster’s head. He examined its jaw for a moment.

“Keep your arm still.” He instructed. 

He brought the bottom of the torch in line with the muscles of its jaw. Quickly he raised the object up and brought it crashing down. There was a muted crunching noise, and he felt the jaw slacken. 

Geralt winced in pain as the impact jarred his arm. Lyre stuck the wooden torch end in its mouth, prying it open further using a lever-like technique, until the Witcher could pull his arm free.

Geralt’s sleeve was soaked in blood – both the monster’s and his own. Instinctively, the birdman placed a palm over the wound, feeling the other man tense as he called on his magic. He could feel inner turmoil, a strong presence willing his magic away. He frowned.

“Stop fighting me.”

The presence remained intent for a moment or two, and then he felt the Witcher force himself to relax, his mind’s natural shield allowing Lyre’s magic to flow unimpeded. The birdman did not expect the presence to follow the link back into his own mind. Startled, he lost focus for a moment, gaining a fleeting impression of strength, fire and pain. Lyre reinforced his own shields before realising it was not an attack. 

The Avrian reached out a mental hand, tugging at the other man’s consciousness lightly, directing his focus to the injured appendage. Lyre visualised the muscles and tendons of the arm, pictured them knitting back together, sealed and whole. 

They watched as the wound began to stitch itself closed slowly, responding to Lyre’s magic. When it was done the birdman gently pushed at Geralt’s consciousness until he was alone in his skull once more. Lyre felt a moment of disorientation as the link dissolved. He blinked a few times up at the man, his confusion mirrored in the golden eyes of his companion.

Lyre swayed suddenly on his feet and Geralt caught at his arm to steady him.

“You aren’t going to pass out on me are you?” 

“I think…not.” Sudden tiredness made Lyre’s speech clumsy.

“No wonder they had you arrested. You must have absolutely terrified the villagers.” 

“I only wished to help.”

Geralt snorted. “Small-minded cretins. I owe you a debt.”

“The debt was mine to pay. You've won my freedom. Twice.”

“Do you think you can teach me that skill?”

Lyre regarded him for a moment. “I do not know. You’re mind feels…different. And I have never trained another.”

It looked as though Geralt wanted to press the matter further, but after a moment he released Lyre’s arm and surveyed the monster’s carcass. 

“Hmm. So much for an undamaged trophy for Vincent.” The Witcher sliced head from neck cleanly. 

“You've crushed its jaw.”

“Me? You've –mangled– its head!”

Geralt threw his back his head and laughed.

“Let’s get the hell out of these sewers. I need a bath. And food.”

*

Lyre’s vision shrunk until his world became the sight of the Witcher’s broad back as they retraced their steps through the tunnels. He tripped slightly on the uneven stone and cursed inwardly. Why was he so tired all of a sudden? Healing the man’s wound shouldn’t have been so difficult.  
Black spots appeared in his vision and seconds later Lyre felt himself falling, distantly aware of a pair of arms embrace him. He let the darkness take him.


	3. Chapter 3

At least the boy was light, Geralt mused, as he prepared to hoist the Avrian over his shoulder once more. He’d collected his weapons and belongings from the dungeons. The Captain had surprisingly been as good as his word and Geralt had two letters of pardon folded into a pocket.

He regarded the boy for a moment, considering. It would be bad enough that his own features drew attention in a city as crowded as this. Geralt wondered what the folk would make of Lyre’s dead weight over his shoulder. The Witcher dug into his pack, pulling out a canvas cloak used to ward off the rain. It would do well enough to hide the boy’s wings.   
Geralt pulled the boy into a sitting position and threw the cloak around his shoulders. Suddenly curious, the Witcher lightly ran a hand over grey feathers. They were softer than he expected. As his hand carded through the plumage, a stray feather came loose. 

The sound of footsteps snapped Geralt out of it. He instinctively tucked the feather into his pack and shouldered it. A second movement saw the boy easily slung over his shoulder.

“Prudent.” Was all Vincent said as he noted the now-cloaked Avrian. “Now get going. As soon as you’ve conducted your business I want you out of my city.”

“I’m not here to stir up trouble.”

“Where there’s Witchers, there’s trouble. Now get.”

Geralt gave the man a mocking salute and mounted the stairs, taking a moment to savor the evening air as he exited the city barracks. It was not yet full-dark and he could smell fires burning in their hearths, and the heady aroma of cooking as he passed an open doorway. The Witcher’s stomach growled, and he decided to head for the Hairy Bear – the Temple Quarter’s Inn.

He didn’t get very far.

Pausing to ask a shopkeeper for directions, he thanked the man and nearly bumped into a healer as he turned to leave. 

“My apologies, Miss.”

“Geralt?” The woman stared at him, wide eyed.

He stared down at the petite redhead, bemused. 

“Geralt? It’s really you!”

The woman seemed to be overcome with emotion for a moment, then flung her arms around his neck. Surprised, Geralt stiffened slightly, but could not pull her off with both hands occupied with his gear and his unconscious companion.

“Do we know each other?” 

The woman drew back disbelievingly, no doubt ready to ask a thousand questions. Questions he had no answer for. 

He sighed, tiredly.

“I must beg your patience. I have no recollection of my past beyond the last two moons.” He explained.

Green eyes regarded him sharply for a moment, then her expression softened as she accepted his words as truth.

“I’m Shani.” She looked like she wanted to say more, then noted the slim man over Geralt’s shoulder.

“Is he hurt?”

“No. Just unconscious.”

“Follow me.”

Geralt needed no encouragement. Here was someone who could tell him about his past. About the life he’d led before waking up in that deserted field two months ago.   
They walked a short distance to a modest looking townhouse. Surprisingly the woman – Shani – kept her peace and for that Geralt was grateful. His world has been turned on its head in the space of a few moments, his thoughts in turmoil.

She unlocked the door and they entered a neat looking living space. 

“Place him on the rug by the hearth and get a fire going. I’m going to get a bath ready for you two.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

Geralt’s lips twitched, amused.

“Hazards of being a Witcher.”

“Bathing is a choice, Geralt.”

“I’ve been busy touring Visima’s famous dungeons. And sewers.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

“Do I have to worry about angry watchmen breaking down my door?”

“No.”

“Alright then. I’m going to draw a bath. You stink.”

Geralt watched her leave.

She hesitated at the door.

“It’s good to have you back.”

**  
Geralt would have felt more self-conscious around this woman, but the past couple of days were starting to take their toll and he rested his head tiredly against the edge of the bathtub.

Bumping into Shani had been a godsend. Despite not being able to remember anything of his past, she did not feel like a stranger. Instinct made Geralt trust her. If anything, she reminded him of a bossy yet caring little sister. 

She’d been shocked to discover his companion was an Avrian, but practical as she’d quickly divested the boy of clothes and scrubbed him head to toe. The boy didn’t stir. It reminded Geralt of a Witcher’s healing trance. Almost.

Shani prodded him awake.

The bathwater was growing cold, suggesting that he had dozed off for a short while. 

“Here put this on.” She handed Geralt a robe as he stood and climbed out of the tub. He belted it, then moved to help with the unconscious Avrian. Geralt held him upright while Shani pulled the sleeves over the boy’s arms, putting the robe on backwards to allow for his wings.

“Can you carry him into the guestroom?”

Geralt did as he was bid and then returned to the hearth where blankets and pillows had been stacked neatly for him. It was a luxury after the past few days.

“Shani...” he began, not sure of his words.

“Not tonight Geralt. You’re asleep on your feet. You need rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She lightly touched his arm.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He responded in kind. He sank into a dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a little time as I debated over the various paths the story could take. Comments and critiques appreciated ^_^

Geralt woke feeling well rested for the first time in a long while. To his surprise, he’d slept most of the morning away. It was vaguely disturbing that he had been so completely unaware of his surroundings; that he’d let his guard down. 

The unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread and frying bacon began to fill the air, shaking Geralt him from his thoughts and spurring him out of the blankets. He hastily donned his shirt and tied his hair back from his face before rounding the corner into the kitchen hopefully.

“Good morning.” 

“Geralt! What have I told you about creeping up on people?” Shani waved a fork at him from her vigil in front of the stove. 

His stomach growled audibly, and her mouth twitched.

“Apologies. I shall make more noise next time.” 

The young woman’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I have some bells we could stitch on your clothes?”

Bells? Suddenly, a flash of – something – floated across his mind. A man on a horse, strumming a lute, bells chiming with the gait of the animal. Then the image faded, as lightning fast as it had appeared. He opened his eyes to find Shani peering up at him.

“Geralt, are you alright?” 

“I remembered….something.” 

“What did you see?” 

“I am riding opposite a man who is playing music. He feels familiar. A jester.” He paused. “His clothes are horrid. They have bells on them.”

“Dandelion.”

The name – for he knew it to be a name – sent sparks through his brain, familiar and yet alien at the same time. He sighed in frustration. 

“It will come. Give it some time.” Shani gestured him over to the table and he obliged. 

He watched the healer move about the kitchen, a calm and reassuring presence as she plated up their breakfast and sat opposite him. Geralt dug in hungrily, knowing he must look every inch the feral barbarian. But he received no censure from his host. 

“How is he?”

“Still sleeping. I can’t detect anything wrong with him. It might be that he is simply catching up on sleep. I checked him not long ago.”

Minutes ticked by in silence as they finished their meal.

“You are the only person who has not pushed me to remember the things I cannot. Why?” 

“Because it wouldn’t help.”

Geralt nodded. Kaer Morhen had been an exercise in frustration. It seemed that no-one could start a sentence without the word ‘remember’ in it, even though he’d been told that none of his year mates still resided at the keep. Still, he’d felt a connection to the place and to his old mentor. The Salamandra and the Professor would pay for what they’d done.

“Do you think my amnesia is permanent?” he asked.

“It’s impossible to say, Geralt. The fact that you are having flashes about your past suggests that you will recover your memories. Or at least some of them. But I cannot promise you will remember everything.”

“And here I was going to compliment you on your bedside manner.” Geralt quipped.

Shani rolled her eyes then patted his hand sympathetically.

“So are you going to tell me how we met, or who this Dandelion is?”

“I can do better than that. You can see him tonight. He’s performing at the Hairy Bear. But I’m more interested in hearing your story. And how you met your sleeping companion.”

“I was in jail.”

Shani rolled her eyes. “Is that any way to start a story? You begin like this - It all started two months ago…”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, but dutifully repeated after her.

“It all started two months ago. I woke up in the middle of a field…”

 

**

 

Lyre drifted.

He was suddenly standing in one of the Eyrie’s high towers looking down past the clouds, the tops of the mountains just visible. Of all the hideaways in the castle, this had been his favourite spot. No one had ever intruded on him here. Below, Lyre could see flashes of colour as his fellow kinsmen propelled themselves through the air, wings catching the light’s rays. Sadness filled him then as he realised he would never look out on this scene again.

“I knew I’d find you sooner or later, little bird.” 

Lyre whirled around, the familiar voice causing the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle with dread. 

“We have nothing to say to one another, Erynion. Now leave.” 

The taller Avrian smirked and stepped further into the room. “My, my.” He chided. “You are already starting to sound like one of those brutish humans. I’d love to oblige you, pet, however –“

“– Get out of my dream– “

“– we’re not really in your dream we, Lyre?”

Lyre opened his mouth to protest, but now that the words had been spoken, he knew they were the truth.

“You’re controlling the dream. How – “

“Not important. I’ve wasted quite a bit of time hunting you down, little bird. Of course, your stunt with the dying human helped a great deal.” Erynion grinned predatorily. “I should thank you for sending out such a beacon.”

Lyre tugged experimentally at the threads of the dream in his mind, but they stayed taut, inflexible to his will.

“Ah ah, my dream, remember? Besides, we never got to finish our conversation that day.”

“Conversation?” Lyre spat at him. “You call that conversation?” Rage twisted in his stomach, along with revulsion.

“I was confident you would see my way eventually. I underestimated you, little bird.”

A dark glint entered the other’s eye as he stepped in close. 

“Do you remember this?”

A dagger was produced, the blade flat against Erynion’s upturned palms.

Lyre’s heart skipped a few beats, the air turning to ice around them. 

“Ah, good. I was hoping you would. I thought a little pay back was in order. You see, you rather spoiled my plans when you slipped this between my ribs, Kinslayer.”

“The dead cannot touch the living.” Lyre responded automatically. His being smarted at the awful truth. Kinslayer. They’d whispered the same thing on the eve of his exile. He could almost feel the crowd pressing in on him again. The weight of the cold stares threatening to overwhelm him. The faces of his friends, family and kinsmen had been transformed into masks of disgust and revulsion. 

“Are you so sure about that Lyre?” 

The room shrank then, until the brunette felt like he was being crushed. Escape. He needed to get out of there. Without thinking, he threw himself backwards and out the window. For there were no panes of glass in the Eyrie. For a horrible moment, he felt the dream threads hold him fast. He saw the raven-haired Avrian’s head appear over the sill, dark eyes intent and maliciously resting on him.

And then Lyre was falling. He let gravity take him, tucking his wings tightly into his body.


End file.
